


straight no chaser

by MidwesternDuchess



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: DC has lost its Jason Todd Rights for the last time, Gen, also FUCK the Red Hood redesign where he has a crowbar, also arrowverse I guess bc look that show sucked but it gave us Thea and Felicity, anyway here's a better version of the new storyline, my jason is DUMB and TIRED and TRYING HIS BEST, sick!!!! of them!!!! doing my boy dirty!!!!, where Jason owns the Iceberg Lounge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24635794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidwesternDuchess/pseuds/MidwesternDuchess
Summary: Jason says, “Didn’t Oliver run the Verdant for all those years? It can’t be that hard, maybe he’ll give me some tips."“Please don’t let Master Bruce hear you say that, sir,” drawls Alfred, predictably long-suffering. “He’s likely to be more forgiving towards your history with homicide than he is your implication that Mr. Queen is anything remotely resembling a role model.”“Hey, Oliver’s cool,” Jason protests, but at Alfred’s arched eyebrow, relents. “Okay, Oliver kinda sucks, but Thea's cool, so we have to tolerate him.”“Years ahead of you, Master Jason,” says Alfred, prim.“Years.”Or:Jason Todd—Gotham’s Prodigal Prince—becomes the owner of the Iceberg Lounge.
Comments: 22
Kudos: 104





	straight no chaser

Steph looks predictably awkward and out of place when Jason steps into the room—all by herself at the opposite end of the table from where Tim is explaining something to Dick and Babs that Jason immediately knows he has no fucking interest in—so he drops into the seat next to her with a jaunty, “’Sup, Eggplant.”

She looks up sharply, but doesn’t startle, so he supposes all that training with Cass must be paying off. Not surprising, since Cass is the best of them, but still. Nice to know the kid won’t be punching a second hole in her Dead Robins Club membership card anytime soon. Steph smiles at him.

“Hi Jason,” she greets, all sunny. Always in such a good goddamn mood—Jason doesn’t get why she even hangs around with a pack of miserable losers like the rest of them. Well, he does, actually, and it’s because her heart’s too big for her damn body and she’s got a stubborn streak that makes him look only _mildly disagreeable,_ but Christ. Girl needs to take an extended vacation to Metropolis or something—make friends with some people who _aren’t_ relentlessly depressing all the fucking time.

He’s drawn attention from the rest of the table—out of the corner of his eye he can see Tim’s stopped talking, and Babs is fixing him with one of her darkly inscrutable looks that looks hilarious next to Dick’s bright and delighted smile.

“Still in college?” he asks, because he knows of all the members of the _Bat Fam—_ god he hates that fucking name—she’s the afterthought. Dick’s the golden child, Barbara’s everyone’s big sister whether there’s an opening for one or not, they keep tabs on Jason because they’re worried he’s gonna a) kill someone b) get himself killed or c) get himself killed while trying to kill someone, and Tim and Cass are fully-fledged Waynes now. Plus Damian, who is at the forefront of everyone’s minds always because he’s fucking _Damian_ and if they lose track of him Gotham’ll fucking burn to the ground.

But Steph never fit in neatly, and it’s a feeling Jason knows all too well, and if the easiest fix for it is to sit and listen to her bitch about her dumb Psych class or whatever—fuck it. He’s got nowhere to be.

Steph says, “I am indeed still accumulating mountains of debt,” but she’s still smirking. It pisses Jason off, just a little, how all her finances have gone to shit, because he knows all Steph would have to do is say the word and Bruce would pay for her schooling in a _second—_ hell, he’d send her to some fucking fancy boarding school in, like, the _Alps_ and buy her a cushy flat in the most expensive part of Uptown Gotham if she just said _please._

He knows part of it is Steph’s aforementioned stubborn streak—he’s seen this scrappy blonde nobody dig in her heels during an argument with fucking _Superman—_ but, also, he thinks part of it is the fact that she has to ask at all. She _died_ for this city—Bruce should give her everything she could ever want on a _platter._

But he won’t, and Steph would probably rather die _again_ than ever ask him, so she tells him about her classes and her professors and her potted plants and how she’s gone to more parties as Spoiler than Steph Brown because holy _shit_ are there a lot of drug deals going on at Gotham U, which, yeah—Jason could’ve told her that. He used to facilitate that shit.

Cass appears like a ghost on Steph’s other side—all sharp and dark in her Black Bat uniform, sans cowl—and neatly deposits herself into the chair with a pleasant nod to Jason. She must've just got in from patrol.

 _“Cassandra,”_ he drawls, all long and low, just to pull one of those small, rare smiles from her.

“Jason,” she returns, soft as ever, and he grins in response.

Steph and Cass take a minute to catch up—Cass asks after some broken rib Steph had apparently taken in some back alley brawl the other night while Steph just waves her off—and Jason glances down the table, frowning when he sees Dick staring right back at him.

 _“Jay—”_ he begins, eyes lighting up, and Jason promptly ducks his head back next to Steph and Cass.

“What were you saying about that party you went to?” Jason asks, like he could give a shit, but Steph’s just delighted to have someone to talk to—Jason makes a mental note to text her at least, like, monthly, just so she doesn’t go stir crazy being kept on the outs like she is—and Cass lifts an eyebrow because Cass sees through everyone’s bullshit, always.

It ends up not mattering anyway, because the second Steph’s launched back into her story, the doors to the meeting room creak open.

Jason hates that he can _feel_ it, when Bruce’s eyes land on him—but he can, and there’s fuck-all he can do about it, and luckily Steph keeps chattering happily so he zones out to the sound of her babbling about some party she went to where she kicked everyone’s asses in beer pong only to come back ten minutes later as Spoiler just to kick their asses _again_ as Bruce strides across the conference room to take his seat at the center of the table, Damian at his side. Jason wonders if anyone’s thought to suggest to the kid that he might have a better time assimilating to being a regular twelve year-old if he stopped wearing fitted suits every day of his life. Does he even _own,_ like, fucking basketball shorts? A Minecraft shirt? _Anything?_ Jesus.

When Bruce settles, the room settles with him—Dick and Babs stop murmuring at the end of the table, Steph straightens up beside him, Cass lifts her head expectantly. The only person who doesn’t react is Tim, who keeps scribbling away at his tablet, and Jason might’ve been out of the game for a while but even he knows that having a fraction of Timothy Drake-Wayne’s attention is worth more than having the full attention of about every other person on the planet, so. Jason idly wonders if he’s balancing the books at WE or hacking into some database or just doing his goddamn homework for once.

The room is almost painfully quiet, but Jason’s been in a literal _coffin_ before—he and dead silence are old friends.

Then Bruce says, “Jason,” all solemn and shit, and Jason almost cracks a joke about it being someone’s funeral, but Steph always take those jokes to heart and if he makes Steph cry _—again—_ Babs is gonna make him eat a batarang, so.

“Present,” Jason replies, like this is a perfectly normal place for him to be and he hasn’t been determinedly dodging invites to the past, like _thirty_ Bat Family meetings.

 _“Tt,”_ Damian scoffs from his father’s side, throwing Jason a look of reproach, “the prodigal _Hood.”_

“The word’s _son,_ actually,” says Jason, reclining casually in his chair. “Can’t see how you’d forget it, seeing as there’s so many of us to go around, but I guess that’s the al Ghul’s homeschooling for you.”

Cass’ hand shoots out _—lightning_ fucking quick—to reach across Steph and snatch the batarang Damian had hurled at Jason straight out of the _air_ when he’d, like, blinked? Did the fuckin’ goblin just have one ready and waiting? _Jesus._

Silence hangs over the table. Cass allows the batarang’s razor-sharp point to balance cleanly on the tip of her finger for one moment—Jason stares at his own dumbstruck expression in the steel’s polished surface—before it vanishes into one of her costume’s dozen hidden pockets and she settles back into her seat, staring pointedly at Damian.

Jason says, “Thanks, Cass,” because he does have manners, actually, and Cass just nods, never looking away from where Damian’s scowling at her.

“So glad you decided to come back to the meetings, Jason,” says Tim, bland, not even looking up from where he’s doing something likely very complicated with very little effort on his tablet. “Things were getting so boring without you.”

“He’s not supposed to carry equipment outside of the field,” Dick says, frowning at Bruce. “Do you know how many times I got grounded for having _batarangs_ in my pockets?”

Babs is supremely unimpressed, and it’s a testament to Damian’s literal _torture_ resistance training or whatever Ra’s and Talia put him through that he doesn’t fold under the weight of her glare. “Damian does have a habit of thinking he’s exempt from the rules,” she observes coolly, flicking her gaze to Bruce. “Doesn’t he?”

Jason settles back in his chair, swallowing the urge to smirk. Not even two minutes and everyone’s at each other’s throats. It’s like he never left at all.

Bruce clears his throat, gaze flickering briefly to Jason before sweeping over the rest of the table.

“Well,” he says, and Jason honestly is half-worried he’s gonna kick him the fuck out, but he just folds his hands, looking to the rest of the table, “let’s begin.”

The meeting is—well, it’s fucking _boring._

Everyone offers up a short report about their respective territories—Dick patrols the rougher parts of Midtown, Babs watches over the GCPD and the fringes of East End, Tim keeps an eye on Uptown and its respective districts, Cass stalks the Leagues’ favorite haunts all across Gotham, and Steph just mostly shows up whenever she can, wherever she happens to be.

No one mentions the Bowery, or the Cauldron, or Crime Alley. Jason wonders who kept a lookout there—who drew the short straw to go check out his old territory—when he was out of Gotham all that time. He hasn’t caught anyone lurking in his corners since he’s been back, so at least they respect the fact that the Hood can take care of his own backyard. Except for Steph, who had popped up one night as Spoiler like a purple fucking _whack-a-mole_ asking if he wanted help beating the shit out of the head of a human trafficking unit and scaring the absolute _hell_ out of him in the process.

He isn’t expecting to be called on, necessarily—he’s still a little shocked his old code even let him into to one of the Manor’s side doors—so it’s a little jarring when Dick catches his eye from down the table and says, “What about you, Jason?

Jason blinks twice, suddenly panicked. Fuck, they don’t want, like, his _input,_ do they? His mind doesn’t work like Babs’ or Tim’s or Bruce’s—he doesn’t plan sixteen moves ahead, playing 3-D chess in his head. He takes things one at a time, pinpointing problems as individually as he can: one neighborhood, one block, one street, one house, one family, one person at a time. Bruce had always hated his approach, saying it wasn’t the best use of time or resources, but it’s the only way Jason knows how to do business—it’s the only way he _wants_ to.

“Uh,” Jason says, very intelligently. “Downtown’s good. Shitty but, y’know,” he shrugs one shoulder somewhat jerkily, uneasy under everyone’s eye, “that’s normal.”

“Heard you bagged one of Falcone’s boys,” Dick says, lifting an eyebrow.

“Well, yeah. But that was like,” Jason counts off the days in his head, “a week and a half ago. And the dude almost threw me off a fucking roof.”

Cass murmurs, “You also returned Killer Croc to Arkham,” and like, _sure,_ but also Croc’s big and dumb—of course he got him back to Arkham.

“I mean,” Jason tries, but Babs is already swooping in with a, “The GCPD has significantly lowered their patrolling in the East End since you’ve been back,” and Jason realizes— _ah._ They’re trying to make him feel…welcome.

It’s almost nice. He spent so long out of Gotham—so long wondering if he’d ever come _back—_ and it dawns on him that…maybe the Family really had missed him.

Damian interjects, “What _I_ want to know,” all imperious, because he’s a Wayne and the world’s his birthright, a-fucking-pparently, “is why _Todd_ is here at all.”

You know what? Fuck the Family, actually.

There's a pointed pause after Damian's outburst, and Jason waits for it to get _just_ uncomfortable enough because saying, “I want the Iceberg Lounge,” cool as you please.

Beside him, Steph squeaks.

Bruce blinks. Once. Jason can’t remember the last time he managed to draw so much emotion out of his dear adoptive dad.

“You _what?”_ asks Dick, peering at Jason from the opposite end of the table. He doesn’t sound, like, angry—just confused.

“The Iceberg Lounge is not Wayne property,” Bruce says smoothly, folding his hands and resting his chin on his knuckles, treating Jason to a look of cool disinterest. “And it is not for _sale.”_

Jason snorts because—really?

“That’d be a _real_ good argument, Bruce,” he drawls, lifting an eyebrow, “if you didn’t have the combined net worth of like, thirty-two fucking states.”

Bruce gazes back at him, and Jason can _feel_ him trying to pick apart his plans.

He flashes back a shit-eating grin. Too bad Bruce hasn’t had a read on him in a _decade._

“And what,” says Bruce, even-toned as always, “would you want with the Iceberg Lounge?”

“It’s an important part of Gotham,” says Jason, trying very hard to sound calm and reasonable and not like he’d been up since two that morning making a PowerPoint presentation on this very fucking subject just so he wouldn’t _blow this._ Roy had assured him that it _kicked ass, dude_ and Thea had offered a few aesthetic suggestions like he was actually gonna fucking _present_ _it_ so like three cheers to the Star City group chat. “We’ve used the place to get information for, like, _decades.”_

Bruce is still staring at him like he can read his mind if he just _wills_ it hard enough. It’d be funny if Jason couldn’t clearly remember a time when he wouldn’t dream of keeping anything from him.

“I think it’s a good idea,” says Barbara, in that firm, definitive way of hers—like she’s thought about something for exactly seven seconds and has already made a decision. Her support settles something deep in Jason’s stomach—having Babs in his corner has always soothed his anxiety, even when he was a fledgling Robin. She looks across the table at Bruce. “The Lounge could get out of hand under the wrong ownership, and we’re spread too thin for something like that.”

“The Lounge is easy to monitor,” Bruce argues, all low and measured as he flicks his gaze over to her. Jason bites back a grin as Babs squares her shoulders—any fight, his money’s on the redhead. “Deepening our presence there will upset the balance we’ve established.”

“The Penguin is incarcerated,” says Cass, quiet. She glances to Bruce, one eyebrow arched. Jason is suddenly very viscerally reminded of the time he’d watched her even her eyeliner with the flat of her fucking _sword._ “The balance is gone.”

“We can certainly find someone to manage the club,” Damian replies sourly, the only one with the gall to be snarly to Cass, probably because he’s compensating for the fact that she’s like, the one person who can give him a run for his money with swordplay, barring maybe Ra’s’ crusty, immortal ass, and Baby Bats takes that shit, like, _personal_ personal. “Who won’t turn it in to a _weapons_ cache.”

Jason quirks an eyebrow, says, “Haven’t you killed more people than me?” all tart and lazy, and Dick says, _“Jason,”_ like a disappointed mother while Tim coughs with a badly disguised laugh.

It’s a good thing Bruce’s glare hasn’t been able to do shit to Jason for years—because _fuck_ if he isn’t getting the evil eye every which way tonight.

“The Red Hood does _not_ belong in the Diamond District,” he says, tone a touch cooler than it’d been before and—oh my, is Jason actually getting under his skin? That’s a first. “Just because you’ve decided to disregard Gotham politics does not mean they cease to exist. It would never work.”

The World’s Greatest Detective must be slipping, Jason muses, if he’s playing right into the hands of a resurrected dirtbag from the East fucking End.

Jason says, “I wouldn’t do it as Hood,” watching as Bruce’s eyebrow raises a near indistinguishable amount. “I’d do it as Jason Todd.”

No one says a word, but he does see Babs’ eyes widen with surprise and hey—not everyone can pull a fast one on Batgirl. Bruce opens his mouth to speak, but Damian takes the initiative, leaning around his father to treat Jason to a particularly nasty look down the table.

“Jason Todd’s _dead,”_ says Damian, blunt, because he’s genetically incapable of _not_ being a fucking asshole. Cass’ features lace tight with displeasure, and Dick pins the little demon with one of those cold, bloodless stares everyone always forgets he’s capable of, but it’s Steph who bristles in her chair.

“Nobody asked _you,_ Damian,” she snaps, making her first real contribution of the evening. Damian switches his glare to her, but she just juts up her chin like the stubborn little ex-Robin she is. “What matters is he isn't dead _now."_

Damian sneers, but Bruce speaks across him before he can fire something back—either verbally or like, physically, Jason isn’t sure, but he knows that gremlin has knives on him at all fucking times.

“That’s enough, Stephanie,” he says, low, and Steph sits back in her seat, expression still red-hot like she has half a mind to bark at Bruce too. Jason wouldn’t put it past her—she apparently slapped the shit out of him back when he’d faked his fucking death—you know, just a regular Saturday.

“Jason _is_ legally dead,” says Bruce, mildly, and like, good to see he’s still choked up about it. “He has been for years.”

Tim says, “So was Oliver Queen,” from across the table, tone almost _painfully_ neutral, and Bruce and Damian both look over to glare at him in horrifying synchronization. Tim shrugs one shoulder, supremely unbothered. If Jason hadn’t seen the kid lose his shit first-hand, he’d think there wasn’t anything on the planet that could rattle him. “Just saying.”

“Queen was barely on that island but a _moment,”_ says Damian, dismissive, “Todd’s obituary is thirteen years old.”

Jason says, “You’ve read my _obituary?”_ scandalized, at the same time Dick says, “That’s _enough,_ Damian.”

Damian scoffs at Dick, but Steph still wants a fight. “People come back to life in Gotham all the time,” she points out, and yeah—she’s definitely still pissed about Bruce faking his death. And like, rightfully so, considering how touchy she is about the whole _dying_ thing since, y’know, card carrying member of the Dead Robins Club. “If Jason wants his identity back, then he should get it back. Why do you get to tell him _no?”_

The more time Jason spends around Steph, the more he understands why she got the boot as Robin—and the more he adores her for it.

“It’s a matter of _propriety,_ Brown,” Damian hisses out, both hands on the table to haul himself out of his chair so he can fully and properly leer down the table at her. “Something I doubt _you_ would understand—”

Cass says, _“Quiet,”_ switchblade sharp, and Damian snaps his mouth shut before he seems to realize he’s actually followed an order. Jason idly wonders why Bruce even bothers with Robins—Batgirls are clearly the ones who run this show.

Speaking of: “I agree with Stephanie,” says Barbara, looking back to Bruce. _“And_ Jason.”

“Jaybird,” Dick begins, hesitant, and since he is regrettably out of range he gets to keep his larynx despite his use of the old nickname, “do you…do you know _how_ to run a nightclub?”

The answer, of course, is _no._ Jason does _not_ know how to run a nightclub, because Jason dropped out of high school and then _died_ so like, there are kind of a lot of things he doesn’t know how to do. He fixed the router yesterday by turning it off and on again and the resulting accomplishment high is gonna carry him to the end of the month.

“Can’t be too hard,” he says instead, all casual, because the truth is he has an ace up his sleeve in the form of one Thea Queen, who had promised that if he _did_ in fact get the Lounge, she’d put him through the paces of running the place. But he can’t own up to that, because he can’t show Bruce how much he actually wants this thing and also if a single one of these goblins roots out his friendship with Thea he’ll pitch any and all of them off of Old Wayne Tower.

“Absolutely not,” says Bruce, just a bit of the Bat bleeding into his tone, and yeah—Jason’s nicked a nerve. “There is no benefit to giving you control of the Iceberg Lounge.”

Silence again—the whole table’s holding back. Even Damian keeps himself in check. Jason works his jaw, eyeing Bruce like he’s sizing him up for an alleyway brawl. It feels just as ugly and underhanded, frankly.

“So,” he drawls, tilting his head lazily to the side, “just to be clear, the fact that I just _want_ it isn’t enough?” He lifts an eyebrow. “I gotta _prove_ myself? _Again?”_

It’s a dangerous argument, but Jason’s done playing nice. Has been for a while now, actually. Bruce just stares at him.

“If Dick asked,” Jason goes on, “or if Tim did, or Babs did—it’d be theirs in a second.” Bruce stares him down—it’s been so long since Jason’s argued with him out from under the Hood that it almost puts him off balance. _Almost._ “But when _I_ ask—”

Bruce cuts him off _ruthlessly._ “Don’t act as though you’re asking for a simple favor, Jason,” he says, words so cold Jason’s surprised his breath doesn’t cloud, “and don’t act as though this Family has not done _everything_ for you—”

“Bruce,” Dick warns, eyeing Jason warily, but Jason’s already halfway out of his seat, shouting, _“Everything?”_ so loud he can hardly hear Steph hissing at him to “ _Fucking **cool it,** Jason—”_

“This Family _has_ failed Jason,” Barbara cuts in, as Steph hauls Jason down back into his seat. He goes willingly—if he’s gonna fight anyone at this table it’s not gonna be the fucking _Spoiler—_ and tries to get his temper under fucking control. Babs lifts an eyebrow. “That’s not picking sides, Bruce. That’s simply a fact.”

No one actually _looks_ at him after she says that—they’re all too well-trained—but Jason goes stiff anyway.

“Tell me _one time_ that I’ve dropped the ball as Hood since coming back to Gotham, and I’ll forget the whole thing,” he says, sharp. “Just one, and I’ll let it go, and we can move on to like, the monthly fucking _cape_ budget or whatever you talk about at these things.”

Bruce glares back something _fierce,_ while Tim murmurs, “We probably _should_ have a cape budget,” mostly to himself, and actually fucking scribbles a note down on his tablet.

“You’re unreliable,” Damian hisses, like he’s got any fucking room to talk.

“Yeah, and I was also _dead_ for a while,” Jason snaps back, because _fuck—_ Baby Bats needs to watch where he fucking steps if he wants to leave this little meeting with an intact jaw. “People _change.”_

“Jason _isn’t_ unreliable,” Steph argues—god Jason owes her like, forty fucking IHOP breakfasts for this and he’s more than okay with it—“At least _he_ didn’t ditch me at the docks when we had agreed to work _together.”_

Damian’s face actually colors—with shame or anger Jason doesn’t know or care, but he does tack on an extra ten breakfasts for Steph. God, if he actually gets the Lounge at the end of this thing he’ll name a fucking waffle special after her.

“Stephanie, that is _enough,”_ Bruce says again, audibly, _tangibly_ angry, and Steph actually bares her fucking _teeth—_

Cass says, “Stop yelling at Stephanie,” cold, and Bruce’s eyes flicker to hers, “she has a place and a voice here, just like everyone else.”

"Cassie," Dick tries, glancing between her and Bruce anxiously.

“What if,” says Tim, tone as measured as ever, like he’s presenting the monthly numbers to a bunch of fucking suits and not trying to de-escalate what could in fact become a goddamn crime scene, “we stop thinking about this _emotionally,_ and just try and plot the logistics?” He glances over at Jason. “Buying the place aside, there’s a lot that would have to be done before you could legally own the Lounge.”

Jason wonders if all the meetings have so many long stretches of silence, or that’s just a new cool thing that started happening because he showed up.

“You would need a story,” Bruce says, at length. He’s staring directly into the center of the table with such single-minded intent it’s like he’s trying to light it on _fire._ “If Jason Todd is suddenly going to turn up after thirteen years of being presumed dead, every Gothamite is going to want to know where he’s been all this time.”

Jason is, of course, aware of this, because despite what everyone seems to think—he didn’t wake up wanting the Iceberg Lounge on a fucking whim. It’s an idea he’s put, like, actual _brainpower_ behind.

“I was in Star City,” he says, easy, even though he knows this is going to be anything but, “I could’ve been a Queen Consolidated employee. Felicity could forge me papers _today_ if I asked.”

He hasn’t actually _asked_ Felicity, per se, because despite his reputation as a freeloader (which he takes _a lot of_ exception to, actually) he would rather bite off his arm than ask her for a favor. What he _can_ do is ask Thea to ask for him, though; a foolproof plan because the benefit of being Thea Queen is no one actually tells you _no._

Bruce isn’t sold. Surprise surprise.

“Too hollow,” he explains. “Queen Consolidated is a household name—it has thousands of employees. Having paperwork doesn’t matter if no one has ever seen you go in or out of the building.”

Jason would, frankly, like to see the Queen Consolidated employee who thinks they tell could Felicity Smoak she’s wrong about something. Actually, he’d love to see _Oliver_ see the Queen Consolidated employee who thinks they tell could Felicity Smoak she’s wrong about something.

“Why can’t he just have been, like, a college student?” Step offers up. She fixes her eyes on Tim, decidedly icing out Bruce, and yeah—there’s a grudge that she’s going to be nursing for a few weeks. “There’s like, a hundred guys who look enough like Jason to pass. Not everyone has big friend groups, either. If he was just like, I don’t know, a loner who did his homework and kept to himself, it could work, right?”

“But a loner who keeps to himself wouldn’t suddenly put himself into the spotlight by taking over the city’s biggest club,” Tim says, at least attempting to sound gentle—or at least less brutally pragmatic than he always is—which Jason can appreciate. He shrugs, twirling his stylus pen _._ “Plus, you gotta find a way to explain why Jason wouldn’t have tried to get in touch with Bruce sooner—that’s the harder part, really.”

Dick frowns, leaning forward on his elbows. “Jason was only twelve when he…” the word _died_ hangs in the air more obviously than if he’d just said it outright, but Jason gets it, honestly. No one wants to talk about a preteen getting beat to death with a crowbar. That’s reasonable.

“…so why couldn’t he have just, been, like, adopted?” Dick finishes, awkward and uncertain but so _determined_. Such a fucking big brother. “Again? Somewhere no one would have recognized him, like Central City or something.”

There’s a pause as everyone rolls the idea around in their heads. Jason considers it—his city-boy ass would have to study up on the finer points of a much smaller Midwestern town, sure, but he could do that.

“You’re bringing more people into the issue,” Babs points out. “Anyone tied to Jason’s supposed backstory is going to get just as much media attention—we couldn’t put a civilian in that position, and that even assumes we’d somehow be able to explain to them _why_ a very famously dead boy is no longer dead.”

Steph frowns, stubborn. “So we ask a member of the Justice League or something,” she insists, “make Clark do it, or Diana.”

Bruce opens his mouth, but Jason’s already talking, “I _don’t_ want the Justice League’s help,” he says, tone Red Hood raw. The room goes still. Jason glares down at the table. “I can find another way—they _aren’t_ apart of this.”

There’s an enormously pregnant pause.

“So,” says Jason, flat, when no one decides they want to break it, “what do they call this in business? An _impasse?”_

Bruce gazes back at him silently, and Jason pushes away from the table, rising to his feet.

“I’ll get my story straightened,” he says, low—he’s still _hot_ with anger, but reels it in enough to keep his voice from shaking, “and I’ll get the money, and I’ll buy the goddamn Lounge myself.”

He turns to leave just as Bruce says, _“Jason—”_

“Thanks for all the help, Bruce,” Jason says, speaking loudly over him. He yanks the door open. “You’re as inspiring as ever, really.”

He barely resists slamming the door—if only because of the many years of Alfred training him out of the habit.

**Author's Note:**

> DC: hey we gave Jason the Iceberg Lounge  
> me: oh my god that’s so funny and ridiculous I can’t wait to—  
> DC: he uses it as a base of operations because he’s a huge evil criminal again and has a crowbar now  
> me:  
> me:  
> me: absolutely fucking not 
> 
> HEY SO here’s my version of “Jason Todd becomes the owner of a very prestigious Gotham nightclub” and I hope you enjoy it. I pepper in a lot of my personal headcanons like a) Steph and Jason are best bros because Dead Robins Club only b) Thea Queen is COOL I don’t care if I have to redo her entire goddamn character piece by piece she will be interesting and compelling and Jason’s friend c) Cass is everyone’s favorite because she’s the best and also the only one who won’t use that power for evil
> 
> you can hmu on [twitter](https://twitter.com/reduxwriter) if you want. I also have another long-form batfam piece [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15547641), if you like how I write these fools but fair warning that I'm kind of overhauling it, since my style’s changed a lot and I want to update it to reflect that. 
> 
> idk at what point in time you may be reading this but if it's anytime around the summer of 2020, support the protests in each and every way you can. and even if it isn't the summer of 2020: blm, acab, fuck TERFs. thanks.


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